


For a Dead Girl

by Meepy



Category: Elsword (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Pseudo-Friendship, how can you expect me to write something linear when you give me a time traveller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meepy/pseuds/Meepy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And yet she still bleeds—because if her tears cannot amend her failures, then maybe her blood will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For a Dead Girl

**Author's Note:**

> [Music insp.](http://www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm8288601)  
>  Alternate title: _Camlann_

 

(He watched in silence as heads fell and her heart fell.  
  
It was all a mistake.)

 

 

 

 

 

“Stop following me.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, because it’s the truth.

She stops in her tracks, turning to face the source of the voice. She is met with only the sight of the bare terrain, but it’s evident in her focused gaze that she can sense his presence hidden away by the cracks in the dimension. She grimaces, “Then what do you want? If you are inviting me to your pity party, I’m not interested.”

He cackles, “Then may I come to yours?”

“ _What do you want?_ ” she demands again.

He drawls, “Demons, northwest; a kilometre ahead. Want me to kill them?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“They happen to be in my way as well.” He shrugs to himself.

There’s a pause.

“I’m not playing the distressed heroine in your self-satisfying story,“ she says with a frown.  
  
"Self-satisfying?” he echoes with a laugh. “If that were the case, neither of us would be here right now.”

“Then tell me again, why are you _here_ right now?” She digs her claymore into the ground and he can hear her real question in the inflection of her voice. He can see her irritation grow with each passing second of silence, along with his desire to laugh in her face.  
  
“I’m a creature of the past, you could say,” he answers eventually.

She raises an eyebrow, muttering, “I’m surprised someone of your state could even recognize such a thing, let alone acknowledge it.”  
  
“This? From _you?_ ” The corners of his lips quirk upwards. “That’s hilarious.”

“I really don’t want to hear this from you, either,” she remarks. Picking her weapon up once more, she turns on her heels. “If this is all you wanted to say to me, I’m leaving.”  
  
The air crackles and he alights in front of her with a smirk. “My offer still stands, you know.”  
  
“And my answer still applies.” She scowls, sidestepping his still figure. “You are being questionably insistent.”  
  
He lets her stride away from him, listening to the distinct sound of her heels digging into the dried soil. She doesn’t even spare him a glance once he speaks, “Well, you would always say that two heads were better than one. And one of those heads happens to be mine, so isn’t it obvious?”

“No, I’ve never said such a thing to you,” she denies without missing a beat. “I don’t need your help—any help.”  
  
“Are you afraid?“ He steps on his dynamos, slowly trailing behind the swordswoman. "That I wouldn’t have your back?”

_That you’ll fail again?_  
  
He sees her shoulders tense and the grip on the hilt of her claymore tighten. “There is nothing for me to be afraid of; I can handle myself.”

"Regardless, I am heading in that direction anyway,” he points out with a chuckle. “You’re rather conceited to think that I’m following you.”  
  
She simply scoffs in response and he smirks; the air fills with the quiet whirring of his machinery.

 

  
(She never said it aloud, but he could always read the “I trust you” in her eyes.

And maybe it was enough.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her blood pours, coagulating around her claymore and transforming it into a heavy blade. Her stance shifts and she readies the sword sheathed in blood.  
  
The monsters surround her with seemingly no end in sight. From above, he sees the last of the creatures tucked away at the edge of the wide forest. They’ve come across a demon nest, he supposes. She charges into the mob, unfazed by the hundreds of eyes that watch her hungrily nor the claws that bare at her threateningly.  
  
But she’s incredibly slow. Each slash is easily followed by his eyes and demons fall one-by-one, not by the tens or the hundreds she’s surely capable of.  
  
He’s almost disappointed.  
  
Still, she pushes through the crowd and the only blood that surrounds her are those of the monsters, her own becoming a strength she utilizes. Her pace slowly picks up and the army of demons continues to dwindle.  
  
But it’s not worth his time, _his_ precious time.  
  
So he descends, demolishing the forest in a flash of purple.  
  
Her eyes meet his and he grins.

 

  
(“If you ever want to talk about it, I’m always here to listen,” she offered. “Or anyone else, really.”  
  
How incredibly righteous of her.  
  
He glanced in her direction and she seemed to be treading carefully around the subject.  
  
“You’re a part of our team,” she continued. “We fight together but we also stick together and support each other, you know?”  
  
She smiled. “I think there’s a strength in numbers. Not just physical, either. There’s a strength you get from caring about someone, or having someone care about you.”  
  
He vehemently disagreed, because—  
  
She wouldn’t understand.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Who is following whom now?” He sets his machinery to rest and watches as the blood knight jogs towards him. He doesn’t know for how long, but she has been tracing his path. He looks behind her figure and the fallen trees of the last battle are too far to be seen with the naked eye.  
  
“You,” she breathes, catching up to his still figure, “have figured it out now, haven’t you?”

“Figured out what?” he repeats dryly.  
  
“Back then, against the demons; your eyes turned black,” she continues, her own eyes flickering between burnt gold and deep crimson. “You can time travel now, can’t you? You can go back to the past?”  
  
“Why are you asking questions you already know the answers to?” he mutters.  
  
“Then Eve is—”  
  
“—Completely fine,” he interrupts. He still keeps track of her; he’s well aware of her status. “It’s all my own power, you know? Her codes wouldn’t make a difference.”  
  
“Take me back,” she says suddenly, moving a step towards him.  
  
“What?” He unconsciously draws away, gaze wary.  
  
“Take me back to that battle,” she demands. “You can do that, can’t you?”  
  
The words process in his mind and he finds himself grinning.  
  
“It’s really a matter of if I _want_ to, not if I can,” he answers with a shrug. “And I don’t want to.”  
  
She looks at him, the lack of surprise in his answer clear on her facial features. _It’s a nuisance_ , he thinks, _her desires_.

But he lets her talk, lets her want, lets her _believe_.  
  
He will humour her as much as she humours him.  
  
“In that case,” she murmurs, eyes thoughtful and sword raised, “I will force you.”  
  
He blinks and he can’t stop the laughter that bubbles into his voice, “Are you threatening me?”  
  
She shakes her head lightly, directing her gaze to his weaponry. “Your dynamos, mainly.”  
  
Which is enough of a threat, he knows. She knows.  
  
“Fine,” he snickers and his sclera darken. “I haven’t had a good fight in a while, anyway. I’d love to _kill you_.”

 

  
(“What? I do have some regrets,” she contemplated aloud. “I would’ve liked to be with Elsword more, and there are definitely different strategies I should’ve used in battle to spare some bloodshed.  
  
"I can’t change my past, though,” she said, turning to face him. “But at the very least, I can change my future.”  
  
He stared at her and she chuckled nervously. “Dwelling on it isn’t going to make a difference, is it?”  
  
“ _I’m_ going to make the difference,” he gritted, and this time it was her turn to stare as he stalked away with those words.  
  
She spoke like she knew everything and it infuriated him because she couldn’t understand _wanting to change the past_.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She dashes forwards and she is fast, much faster than she was against the demons.

_She was holding back_ , he thinks, and he smiles. Her blade swipes at one of his dynamos and he dodges the slash with a second to spare. His dynamos shift into formation behind him and she readies her stance in anticipation. The air around her warps, but she quickly pulls away from the sparks that surround her. She holds her claymore close, effectively acting as a shield against his attacks. _Good._  
  
He will have fun bringing her down to her knees. She will spill blood not of her own volition.  
  
He disappears for a second, emerging from a spatial rift behind her figure and striking. She takes the brunt of the attack, allowing her blood to pour as she counters his next move. She jumps away from him then to give time for her wound to close and the blood to empower her sword.  
  
“How pitiful it is, your suffering,” he says as she maneuvers between the flashes his dynamos shoot out. “Can we really call it that?”  
  
Because suffering is losing everything; suffering is failing again and again, with no end in sight; suffering is being _this_ close to saving the lost boy of his past yet still crashing into the lies the world creates, no matter what he does, over and over and over and—  
  
“ _You_.” She presses up against him suddenly, eyes flashing with anger. Her sword is raised dangerously close to his neck. “You are not the only one that has lost their family.”

He stills at those words and his face contorts into a vicious sneer. She says it like she fucking _understands_.  
  
As if.  
  
He swallows, testing the distance between his throat and her weapon. It’s just barely enough, but what is a little cut compared to a few words that will _break_ her?  
  
“Oh? Your brother?” he hisses. “Elsword’s finally kicked the bucket, has he? About damn time!”  
  
“ _No!_ ” she screams, and it’s the most emotion he has heard in her voice, seen on her face, since the day he met her so many worlds ago. “Elsword is fine! Elsword is—“  
  
She stops herself.  
  
"Please _,_ Add,” her voice cracks and she backs away from him. Her sword falls from her hands, barely missing their feet as it hits the ground with a sharp thud. “The Red Knights were my _family_.”  
  
He hesitates, because he doesn’t remember the last time he’s heard his name and it sounds so foreign and completely wrong in her broken voice. Still, he feels a wide grin form on his face; there’s a sweet satisfaction in watching the former, oh so great Red-Haired Knight grovelling at his feet, sounding very much like a heroine in distress.  
  
He laughs, “I thought you didn’t want to be in my self-satisfying story.”  
  
She doesn’t say anything and he laughs again, loud, because she knows it just as well as he does—it’s _her_ story.

 

  
(She was composed, always stood with her back too straight and spoke in a voice too controlled, too mature for a girl of her age.

“I have to,” she said to him, but the words sounded more like self-assurance. “For my Red Knights. For Elsword.”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She watches quietly as the numbers turn in his head and his dynamos work through complex formulations.  
  
“Space-and-time coordinates,” he supplements and she nods in pseudo-understanding. His machines hover around him and he brings one close, inputting something into the system.  
  
The atmosphere stills, suddenly suffocating, before thundering and splitting into a purple mass. He strides into the newly-formed dimensional crack and she follows silently.  
  
It’s dark, until it’s not—the air is heavy with smoke and tinted with the smell of iron.  
  
It’s a massacre.  
  
Flames burn across the field, the once vast expanse of greenery now nothing but ashes. He sees limbs, both human and monstrous, but what really catches his eyes are the demons themselves, feeding on the remaining corpses of the soldiers. _Her_ soldiers.  
  
And in the midst of it all, a distinct shade of red stands, trembling.  
  
She turns to him then, her expression surprisingly neutral. “This isn’t it. This isn’t my past.”  
  
Her eyes flicker over the aftermath of the battle and her breath catches in her throat. Voice quiet, she corrects herself, “It is. But not _mine_.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “There are parallel universes. Calculating the exact coordinates to _your_ past could take years. Time I wouldn’t waste on you.”  
  
“I don’t care.” She angles her sword at him once more, eyes narrowing.  
  
He chuckles. “No, of course you don’t.”

 

  
(She swept in, looking much too heroic and competent and exactly _not_ what he needed at the moment, but she was already there and, well, he wouldn’t deny some back-up in the midst of a battle. As completely and utterly unnecessary as it was, really.  
  
“You may not play well with others,” she said between parries, breath heavy, “but I do.”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once they descend into another timeline, she immediately readies her blade. Her claymore thickens with blood and she rushes into the mob of demons occupying the area. She is even stronger than she was against him, he duly notes; both her speed and raw power are visibly enhanced.  
  
In his peripheral, he sees an army of soldiers marching towards the battlefield. She seems to sense their appearance as well; her movements quicken against the monsters in response. The demons continue to surround her, but she doesn’t allow them to overwhelm her. No, her attacks against them seem only to be filled with more vitriol and strength.  
  
He supposes she has to work fast to avoid being seen by the Red Knights. Despite her efficiency, the demons continue to emerge from their nests and hiding places, offsetting any real progress.  
  
The knights enter the area, their screams and cries soon resounding throughout the field.  
  
And the blood, all the blood; the blood is theirs, _hers_ , not the enemies’.  
  
But she continues forth with a renewed fire in her eyes, eyes that had been so dull, dull, _dull_ mere moments ago.  
  
She continues forth, bathed in a familiar crimson.  
  
He knows that she won’t last much longer at the rate that she’s spilling her own blood.  
  
He lets out a sigh.  
  
The ground crumbles beneath her, catching her in another world before she can bleed herself completely dry.

 

  
(He had forgotten what love looked like.  
  
But he saw it in their eyes, the way each and every one of them looked at one another like they would throw away their own lives for their friends in a heartbeat. And he knew they _would._  
  
It made him sick to the stomach.  
  
She pulled away from her brother, turning to face him as she asked in a much too chipper voice, “Hey, your family—do you have any siblings?”  
  
“No,” he snapped, and he immediately regretted it. He said too much.  
  
“Oh,” she breathed. “I’m sorry.”  
  
And she sounded sorry, too—it was revolting.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She falls gracelessly onto the ground and coughs, “ _Why_ did you do that? I was close, I was going to—”  
  
“You’re bleeding all over me,” he interjects, voice filled with disgust.  
  
“I had to,” she scowls. She tries to stand, arm clutched around her torso and skin pale, but stumbles back down to her knees. The numerous cuts on her skin remain open and it’s clear that she’s lost control over the amount of blood she’s used to fight.  
  
He echoes, “It isn’t even your past.”  
  
She opens her mouth to retort but quickly closes it, eyes downcast, then a whisper: “I don’t care.”  
  
How utterly selfish all of this is, he thinks. _Her._  
  
Suddenly a voice fills the field, strong, “Red Knights—we have trained and fought together for the very reason we are gathered here today: to be the strength for those who are not able to raise their arms in battle. Today, we will be able to protect Feita and all those who reside within the village. Let us fight, my Red Knights! For great justice!”  
  
A chorus of cheers follow, admiring the woman that stands before them. Clad in fine, scarlet-coloured armour, she holds her head up high as she acknowledges her army.  
  
“Onward, to a brighter future!” the commanding voice booms.  
  
“A brighter future!” the crowd echoes.  
  
The atmosphere is different from the past two iterations as the knights charge forwards, led by their confident captain.  
  
He glances to the side and sees her watching the events unfold in silence. The battle rages on without her, yet it’s undoubtedly a successful campaign; the soldiers are tactful and the demons dwindle in number until the remaining monsters have no choice but to retreat.  
  
It’s an overwhelming victory for the Red Knights.  
  
He looks at her again, and it’s the first time he’s seen her cry.

Clenching her fist, her claymore falls to the ground by her feet. The blood from her previous fight still looks fresh on her skin.  
  
“If I just bleed—my blood, I’ll give it all away,” she whispers shakily. “I’ll exchange it all for _their_ lives.”  
  
Ah, there it is: her disgusting righteousness.  
  
Years ago, he would have disagreed with her, he thinks. Because, objectively, her life was worth so much more than theirs (she was poised, diplomatic, _strong_ ).  
  
But looking at her now, as tear-stained as she is blood-stained, he doesn’t think he can say the same about the Fallen Knight.

 

  
(”Smiling is all you can do sometimes,” she commented, laughing humourlessly. The blood cascaded down her arms, heavy droplets falling from her fingertips and forming a pool of blood by her feet.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She doesn’t move.  
  
She lies on the desert ground of their world, quiet. She stopped crying the moment they returned.  
  
“Elesis,” he says, and her name tastes wrong—different—on his tongue.  
  
She looks up at the sound of her name, the long-forgotten syllables. Slowly, she shifts into an upright sitting position. Her fingers brush the fabric of her clothes, ripped and stained with dirt.  
  
“Are you satisfied?” he asks, pausing to let her speak. She doesn’t. There’s a vileness in his voice that he knows she hears, but she doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch. “It’s what you wanted to see, wasn’t it?”  
  
She doesn’t say anything still, and she doesn’t have to because it’s obvious she wanted to see _herself_ there, leading her knights to victory, having the strength to change the past, smiling and laughing without a care, feeling the _warmth of his mother’s embrace_ —  
  
“What did you see?” she says in a voice so quiet, the wind almost masks her words. “You knew it would be like this, didn’t you? What was it that you saw when you tried to change the past?”  
  
He blinks, taken aback slightly by her question. He contemplates for a moment before relenting, “The same as you. A better future.”

He corrects himself, “A better past.”  
  
“I see.” Her tone is soft and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.  
  
Then after a moment’s silence, calm, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”  
  
He notices her sliding closer with those words. So he takes a step back as he answers, “I said I was a creature of the past, didn’t I?”  
  
“That’s not a reason,” she immediately returns. Crossing her legs, she moves her hands to skim over a fresh cut on her calf.  
  
“Nostalgia, I suppose,” he supplements and she looks up at him, unimpressed with the synonymous answer. Then he laughs, “There’s no fun in killing someone who wants to die.”  
  
She blinks, chuckling in return. “No, there isn’t.”  
  
And somehow, he’s satisfied.  
  
Because he will destroy everything, those that have wronged him and those that have not, and maybe she will too.  
  
And somehow, that’s _satisfying_.

 

  
(“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You can’t just tail us the entire time.”  
  
“Huh? What’re you talking about?” he scoffed, gaze sharp.  
  
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I’m talking about—we’re a team now. And we fight together as a team.”  
  
“I don’t play well with others,” he growled.  
  
She crossed her arms against her chest. “Life’s not a game.”  
  
“Well, that’s where we differ, isn’t it?” he cackled. “Because when—when they’re begging, when _I’m_ what stands between life and death—it feels an awful lot like I’m winning at something.”  
  
Shock filled her face and he only laughed louder. No matter what she said, no matter what she believed in—he was going to take each win as his own, because the fates had dealt him a bad hand.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m going.” With those words, she stands, glancing in his direction. Her injuries have slowly started to heal, he casually observes.  
  
“Where?” the word tumbles out of his mouth.  
  
She tilts her head slightly, allowing her hair to spill over her shoulders. “You know where.”

He simply shrugs in response.

“You can come,” she offers, turning away from his figure.

“Are you finally inviting me to your pity party?” he asks, stepping in line with her.

She looks at him then, and for the first time since he’s spoken to her in this darkened world, he sees something familiar in her eyes; he sees words he hasn’t read in an eternity. Smiling wryly, she murmurs, “You crashed it long ago.”

 

 

(She accepted him with an outstretched hand, open and friendly, yet her eyes were cautious and wary.

“You’ll join us, then?”

And he laughed, because it was a huge mistake.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just because it might not have been clear ... the parts in parenthesis are reverse-chronological.
> 
> Sorry for any inaccuracies; I'm still not very familiar with the game, its story and the characters. Thank you for reading.


End file.
